


A Contest of Ownership

by HisAngelThursday



Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bottom Tommy Shelby, Butt Slapping, Consensual Kink, Desk Sex, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Feminization, Fluff and Angst, Humiliation, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mommy Kink, Office Sex, Pegging, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Top Alfie Solomons, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25706398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisAngelThursday/pseuds/HisAngelThursday
Summary: Tommy has been "dating" Alfie for months now, and is increasingly terrified at the power the man holds over him. He tries to replicate the satisfaction he gets from Alfie with other partners.Little does he know, Alfie isn't fond of sharing. The way he asserts his ownership will be enjoyable for both of them.
Relationships: May Carleton/Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756609
Comments: 50
Kudos: 259





	1. Preemptive Measures

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "An Unusual Arrangement," so maybe read that first!

She does everything right. Everything he wants. 

They go home together, and he tries not to look completely mortified when he presents her with the strap-on. They’ve known each other long enough that he trusts she’ll keep it a secret. And she has the decency to look only slightly amused (understandable.) Mostly aroused. 

“Don’t prep me too much. Be rough,” he instructs. 

And she does, fucking his arsehole aggressively with two fingers, groping and slapping, as the position invites. She giggles, like this is a naughty indulgence he’s allowing of her. 

“Yank on my hair while you fuck me,” he begs. 

And she does, bowing his back as she thrusts, making him groan. She chuckles at the sounds he makes. “Fuck. This is hot,” she sounds surprised, with herself, with the situation. This is probably the most deviant thing she’s ever done, and will do for a while. He can’t see her asking a man to do this.

“Call me…call me a dirty whore.” 

She actually laughs in surprise at that. “What?”

“Call me a dirty whore, _please,_ ” he moans. “A dirty, desperate whore. I want to hear it.”

“Okay.” She giggles again, like a child who’s just stolen some candy and can’t believe she’s getting away with it. “You’re a dirty whore, Tommy, a dirty, desperate whore off the streets.” She doesn’t even make it to the end of the sentence before she’s giggling again. “Fuck, Tom, I can’t believe you’re letting me do this!” 

Tommy groans, letting his head hang as he’s fucked. 

He lets May have her fun for a few more minutes before reaching between his legs and finishing himself off. “Mommy,” he groans – mostly for her benefit, since she’s clearly in the mood to push the boundaries of her own predilections tonight. 

May’s always been dominant. He likes his partners to be dominant. But he needs more than the usual bossiness tonight. In general, he’s needed more lately, and that scares him a little. It scares him when he craves things from specific people. It gives them power over him. 

Afterwards, he eats her out, and she indulges herself, calling him, “Mummy’s good boy.” To her credit, this makes his spent prick twitch with interest. When she’s satisfied, he offers her water, his shower. Waits politely till she’s fallen asleep to bathe himself. He has work to do in his office, and he doesn’t want to do so while covered in sweat and lube and the stench of sex.

Fuck. It’s not enough. 

For the past two months, he’s been “dating” Alfie Solomons. A man who not only challenges his strategic abilities, but who naturally dominates him in every way. They have dinner once every week or so, and Alfie rambles about his lofty, absurd visions of the future (usually in which they’re married, and Tommy may or may not have converted to Judaism to please Alfie’s allegedly deceased mother.) Usually, they have sex, and it is without a doubt the best sex Tommy’s ever had. 

That scares him. It also scares him that he’s been craving Alfie’s company, the comfort of his touch and babble, in a completely non-sexual context. But the sex thing scares him more. It’s more concrete, more identifiable. He doesn’t want anyone to have that power over him. Since Alfie – well, since Alfie, regular sex just hasn’t felt like enough. He’s tried new things, begged women and men to degrade him in ways he never would have asked for in the past. But even at its best, it still leaves him with a feeling of unfulfillment, of an itch left unscratched. 

He needs Alfie, and that’s incredibly fucking bothersome. Because Alfie’s his ally, but also his rival in business. He needs to figure out a way to even the playing field, to nullify Alfie’s hold, or Alfie will surely use this against him. He hasn’t yet, but he surely will.

Tommy’s soaking in the tub and contemplating this dilemma, when Ada raps on the bathroom door. “Tommy? Why is May Carlton’s car in my parking spot?”

Tommy sighs, rising from the tub and putting on a dressing gown. “Probably because May herself is here, Ada.” 

There’s an exaggerated sigh from outside the door. “And I suppose she’ll be spending the night?”

Tommy opens the door to find his exasperated sister standing contrapposto with her hands on her hips. “Thought you liked May, Ada,” he sighs, pretending he doesn’t know what her real issue is.

“It’s childish to do this whenever you have a meeting with Alfie.” She follows close behind him like a persistent insect. “It’s not gonna change anything.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He has spare clothes in his office, and he doesn’t want to wake May, so he continues past his bedroom door and down the stairs. 

“It means, you ignorant git –” aware May’s sleeping, Ada lowers her voice to a stage whisper – “you’re an idiot who’s terrified of vulnerability, and you think you can run from intimacy from the rest of your life, and as any poet or psychiatrist can tell you, you fucking well can’t.” 

“Luckily for me, poets and psychiatrists are some of the least well-adjusted people I know.” Tommy neglects to tell her that he made himself quite vulnerable for May just now – just not in the way Ada’s referring to. And all for the sake of good business, of course.

“Anyway, it’s unfair to May. Does she know –” Ada drops her voice even further – “does she know you’re seeing someone else, Thomas?”

“May knows we work better as friends. We don’t expect commitment from one another.” Tommy descends the stairs, and rolls his eyes, when he hears Ada following him. “And I’m not seeing Solomons. We’re business associates. I do what I can to make my business successful.”

“Including whoring yourself out,” Ada concludes for him. “Well, I’ve seen you do that before. It feels different this time. You know it does. You must know, or you wouldn’t be acting like this.”

God, her voice gets high when she’s nagging him about something. To Tommy’s relief, they finally reach his office, and he has an excuse to ask Ada to leave. “I know we used to take baths together as children, Ada,” he says, pointedly tossing a clean shirt, undershirt, slacks on his desk, “but I think you’re a bit old to stay here while I change.” 

Ada rolls her eyes. “Well. If you’re getting dressed –” she tosses a small gift bag on the desk, which he at first had assumed was something she’d bought for herself – “you might as well put these on, too. Someone left it outside for you.” 

There’s a devilish glint in her eye as she strolls from the room. This tells him she already knows the contents, and that he’ll probably have severely mixed feelings about whatever’s inside.

Tommy waits till the door is shut behind her, before he rummages through the bag. Inside is first a notecard, with the words,  _ For my darling future husband _ . The handwriting, of course, is Alfie’s. What’s inside has him going hot all the way down his neck, and his dick twitching.

Fuck. He’s really not going to survive tomorrow.


	2. A Brilliant Line of Reasoning, Courtesy of Thomas Shelby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy attempts to emotionally prepare for his incoming meeting with Alfie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I can open the fic with Tommy getting pegged and still find some way to turn it into a character study, because that's called duality.
> 
> The next chapter will be from Alfie's viewpoint!

Tommy sleeps on the sofa of his home office that night. Tries to sleep, rather.

He knows May’s still in his bed, and he’s not quite in the mood to face her right now. Without the fires of sexual passion, he’s a bit embarrassed about the things he requested. That’s to be expected. A bit of his dignity, sacrificed in a private setting, seemed worth the good of his business. 

The problem is, it clearly didn’t work. In his hands are a pair of expensive, silk blue panties. Even as he tries to sleep, he can’t help but feel the fabric of them between his fingers. His neck feels hot. Why the fuck would Alfie buy these for him? To mock him? To make him suffer? For the thrill of exerting his control over him?

As embarrassing as it is to request a rigorous strapping session from May, or to pay men and women to degrade him in discretion, he can still stomach it. Why? Because, while he’s being degraded, he’s being degraded on his own terms. He can still feel confident in his control over the situation. 

With Alfie? Being with Alfie is like being on a rollercoaster, operated solely by a drunken horse, careening wildly and precariously from upside-down to rightside-up, till you can’t tell the difference between the two. He could get off. The thing is, he doesn’t want to. He likes the thrill too much.

As he drifts, he thinks back to the last time they met for dinner. It was at Alfie’s house – Alfie seemed to love cooking – and he couldn’t stop stealing glances at the man’s forearms as he worked over the sizzling pan, his rolled-up sleeves showing tanned, hairy skin and shifting muscles. He was sure he was being covert.

“Enjoying the view quite a bit, aren’t you, sweetie,” Alfie quipped, scooping a potato pancake onto Tommy’s plate. 

Tommy shot him his most terrifying glare. Tried to. Around Alfie, he felt toothless, like all his forms of natural defence were taken away. 

Sure enough, Alfie just ruffled his hair and pressed a kiss to his cheek, condescending, yet affectionate. Like they’d already been married for years. “Precious thing you are, love. Like a kitten.”

Nobody had made Tommy feel like that in years. He wasn’t naive, he knew he was considered beautiful by many, but most people considered him beautiful in an otherworldly, almost frightening way. Freddie Thorne, while drunk, once said he looked like a young, beautiful soldier who’d died at war.

In the days and weeks and years that followed, Tommy hadn’t been able to get that image out of his mind. In the mirror, he saw someone who died at war, and that had never really changed for him. 

There were a few people who’d made him feel differently about that. One was Grace. She’d made him feel warm again, too. Warm, and soft, like something coming out of its shell, awakening from hibernation. In her arms, he felt loved, safe for the first time in years. He surrendered himself to her. He was such a fucking idiot. 

He can’t do that again.

He tosses the silken underwear back into their gift bag. He won’t be wearing them tomorrow, even though that's clearly what Alfie had intended. No, this relationship – if one could even call it that – would be purely on his terms. Sex, however degrading, would be a tool at his disposal, something he could use against Solomons. Not the other way around. 

He'll never let himself be that vulnerable again, even if it means he'll never be happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who comments, you keep me going! <3


	3. An Interlude With Alfie Solomons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie anticipates Tommy's meeting, and his latest move in the Freudian chess match of their developing relationship.

Alfie knows he’ll marry Tommy. It’s just a fucking fact, as indisputable as saying “the sky is up” or “the universe is vast.” He thinks Tommy knows it too, somewhere deep down inside. He can see a bit of resignation in those big, ridiculous eyes whenever he brings up the prospect, hidden like a jewel beneath the defiance.

That being said, right, Alfie knows that there is a long and winding and obstacle-laden path just to get to the long and winding and obstacle-laden path that will be their joyful matrimony. 

Tommy, of course, is a complicated person. Which is part of his beauty, like a ridiculously intricate little wind-up bird made of too many disparate components to possibly function, yet function it does, whirring about stubbornly and beautifully out of sheer spite. 

If he wanted some empty-headed trout, he could pick up ten at the nearest gay bar. But he doesn’t. Alfie, right, is also made out of many fucking disparate components that shouldn’t work together, but he lumbers along more like a locomotive than a little bird. Nevertheless, he wants someone who’s a match for him in all that he is – intelligence, ambition, complexity – and that person is Tommy. He’ll take whatever complications come along for the ride. 

Alfie’s in his office as he mulls all this over. From an outsider’s perspective, of course, it would likely look as though Alfie was staring vacantly off into space with a vaguely maniacal expression in his face. Which is the sight that greets Ollie when he cranes his giraffe-like neck into Alfie’s office. 

“Mister Solomons?” 

Alfie doesn’t answer at first, just to remind Ollie that he doesn’t have to acknowledge him if he doesn’t want to. Always important to remind one’s employees of that. 

Ollie clears his throat. “Mister Solomons?” he tries again, tapping awkwardly on the door. 

“Yeah, yeah, I fucking see you mate.” Alfie waves a hand at him, as though Ollie were being unreasonable. “He here yet?”

“Mister Shelby, sir?”

“No, the queen of fucking England.” At Ollie’s blank face, Alfie clarifies, “YES, Mister Shelby. Is MISTER SHELBY here yet, Ollie?”

“Yeah, Mister Shelby’s here, alright,” Ollie stammers, a little flustered by what Alfie perceives to be a very direct and to-the-point line of inquiry. “He’s waiting for me to show him to your office.” 

Alfie inhales. Exhales. “If Mister Shelby is waiting for you to show him to my office,” he begins, calmly. Then, very calmly, he roars, “THEN SHOW HIM TO MY FUCKING OFFICE.”

Ollie barely manages a “right away, Mister Solomons,” before scrambling out again, the door fluttering shut behind him. 

“ _ Azoy fil ritzinoyl zol er oystrinkn _ ,” Alfie mutters, leaning heavily back in his chair. “Insubordination, endless fucking insubordination.” 

He needs to get his head together before seeing Tommy, make sure his judgements were clear and his observations were sharp. He can sense that Tommy will soon reel against their developing relationship, and what it’s becoming. They’ve been getting close lately, Tommy coming to Alfie’s house, sleeping on his sofa because he refused the intimacy of sharing his bed. Which is fucking ridiculous, in Alfie’s opinion, seeing as how having one’s cock up your arse is about as intimate as one can get. Tommy hadn’t reacted well when Alfie told him so.

As their intimacy rises, so do Tommy’s defensive hackles, like a cat anticipating a bucket of water. He can tell Tommy isn’t used to prolonged tenderness of any variety, not without some accompanying betrayal or emotional pain. He spoke quite fondly about his mother, who, by his own admission, had fucking beaten him with a frying pan. And Alfie got the sense that was just the tip of the iceberg of familial dysfunctionality. 

That’s okay. Alfie hailed from the polar opposite of a happy and stable home environment himself, and he understood. They’ll work through it, together.

And Tommy will get what he needs, whether he likes it or not.

As if on cue, the door opens. Alfie lets his smile turn predatory, in that particular manner that he knows Tommy likes. “Sweetheart. Take a seat, why don’t you. Let us talk business, and then we can break bread together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Alfie says in Yiddish is actually a curse, roughly translating to, "May you drink too much castor oil." 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments, I love them! <3 
> 
> Expect heavy smut next chapter, and more of Alfie's viewpoint.


	4. To Lay Claim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie shows Tommy how he feels about sharing.

“And so,” Alfie says, after they’ve come to an arrangement regarding Alfie’s percentage of revenue in exchange for protection at Tommy’s casinos, “our business for the day is concluded, is it?”

“It is.” Tommy, the little fucker, knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s been fluttering those hypnotic eyelashes at him all meeting, smoking a cigarette like it’s a cock. A very tiny, flammable cock, but still. Alfie should’ve known better than to allow him to smoke. 

“Good.” Alfie screeches his chair back, a purposefully obnoxious noise just to watch Tommy scowl. “Have a seat, why don’t you.”

“I am sitting, Alfie,” Tommy explains, the patronizing little trollop. Nevertheless, he puts out his cigarette, as if anticipating what’s to come.

Alfie points at his lap. “I think you’ll find this seat more comfortable, sweetheart.” 

Tommy’s eyes go a bit wide at that, a lovely flush rising on his cheeks. Alfie likes to fancy he’s the only one who can make Tommy blush this way. His pretty eyes dart down, flustered. “I’m not fucking sitting on your lap, Alfie. This is a professional environment.” 

It almost sounds as if Thomas Shelby, DCM, has not recently been asked to sit on another grown man’s lap in a work environment. Very fucking peculiar, that is.

“Well, it’s my professional environment, and it seems to me I have a right to determine what is fucking professional and what fucking isn’t.” Tommy remains seated, eyes downcast, and that will never fucking do, will it now? “Alright, then.” Alfie rises to his feet so abruptly and noisily, that Tommy actually jolts. The boy is on edge today, isn’t he? “You can stand.” 

He lumbers over to Tommy, who appears to be frozen in place, and practically yanks him to his feet with his hand on his hair. Tommy looks up at him defiantly at that – a look which quickly falters as Alfie nuzzles into his neck and bosom, breathing in that sweet fucking scent of woodsmoke and hyacinths. What kind of fucking soap does he use to smell that way, Alfie wonders vaguely, already fumbling with his buttons. 

“Alf –” Tommy cuts himself off to evidently stifle a moan. Alfie can practically feel it in his clean-shaven throat. That will never fucking do, not in the slightest. 

Alfie snarls, bearlike to his own ears, as he fights his way through the multiple layers to get to the little fucker’s lovely, heaving chest, nipples already standing at attention, pert and interested and dusky berry pink. One is helpfully framed by that semicircular tattoo, which Alfie’s been told looks vaguely like the Gypsy flag, or Tommy’s confirmed kills from the war, depending on whom you believe. 

“Love your fucking tits sweetheart,” he growls, thumbing them gently.

Tommy turns a shade of livid pink, eyes defiant and mortified. “I don’t fucking have tits, Alfie.” 

“Yeah, you do, silly girl.” Alfie tweaks his nipples sharply, as if proving a point, making Tommy gasp. “Sweet, succulent little tits. I’d like to eat them.” And Alfie does lean down to sink his teeth into Tommy’s tender pectoral, laving his tongue over his puckered nipple. 

Tommy’s knees actually falter at that, and Alfie takes the opportunity to lift him, wrapping his arms ‘round that succulent arse and hefting him up while continuing to ravage his chest. Tommy makes a half-offended, half-aroused noise. His arms wrap around Alfie’s shoulders and his legs around his waist, as if on instinct. 

Alfie experimentally rocks Tommy’s taut little body down on his cock, already mostly hard in his pants, and Tommy makes a shocked little sound, like he’s afraid he’ll drop him. Fuck, he’d take him just like this if it wouldn’t absolutely murder his back. Fucking sciatica.

Instead, he deposits him none-too-gently on his desk, roughly clearing away whatever items were unfortunate enough to be in his way. Tommy’s shouting things in Romany now as he scrambles indignantly for purchase, and Alfie – who prides himself on knowing a little of just about every language – is pretty sure he recognizes  _ bengalo _ (“devilish”) and  _ bi-lacho _ (“no good”) somewhere in there, along with a smattering of curses. 

“Now, that kind of language will never fucking do, will it?” Alfie growls, and Tommy’s eyes widen slightly at the implication that Alfie can understand what he’s saying. Alfie kisses the surprise right off of his face, fumbling with his belt and yanking down his trousers. 

To his disappointment – but not his surprise – Tommy is not wearing the underwear Alfie purchased for him. Alfie knows he still has hangups about that, and probably sees this as some kind of rebellion. No matter. There’ll be time for that.

What he’s not prepared for is reaching down, past Tommy’s turgid little erection, to feel a distinctively well-fucked arsehole. Alfie keeps his face pressed to Tommy’s neck so he can’t see his look of surprise, wouldn’t want to give the devious little fucker something he could latch onto. 

Somehow, Tommy picks up on it anyway. He was probably anticipating it. “A good friend paid me a visit last night,” he informs Alfie, voice smug even through heavy, panting lust. “More well-endowed even than –” 

He never finishes that thought, because Alfie, in a fit of blind yet calculated rage, flips Tommy over onto all fours. Tommy yelps – a satisfying sound, considering how pompous the bastard sounded just instants ago – once again fumbling to get his bearings. Alfie doesn’t let him, forcing his head down and his arse in the air. Alfie can’t help but slap it, hard, instructing him to, “Fucking stay there if you know what’s good for you.” 

He knows he doesn’t exactly have a right to be angry that Tommy’s fucking other people – they haven’t had any conversations about monogamy yet – but Alfie’s certainly going to remind him who he fucking belongs to. 

He gives a satisfied growl as he spreads those delicious, round cheeks, kneading them between his fingers, exposing that lovely, dusky pink hole. Tommy seems to sense his intentions.

“Please, Alfie, don’t,” he begs. “I – I haven’t showered –” 

“All the better, sweetie.” 

Alfie eats Tommy out thoroughly, and his complaints quickly lose coherence as Alfie laves around and around that tight, fluttering furl of muscle. When Alfie pushes his tongue inside, as deep as it will go, Tommy actually squeals – a high-pitched, delectable, desperate fucking sound, like it’s too much for his little body to take. Alfie wants to eat him alive. So he does. 

When the confines of Alfie’s own trousers are finally too much to take, he sits Tommy on his cock, delighting at the sounds he makes, at the way he squirms around him. “What’s the matter, darling?” Alfie can’t help but taunt. “Thought your friend already gave you a good ‘seeing to,’ hmm?”

“Fuck,” Tommy gasps out, “you.” 

“I think I’d much rather fuck you.” 

And Alfie does. 

He wraps his arms around Tommy bare thighs, spreading them wide and using them to bounce him up and down. Alfie wishes he could watch Tommy’s arse swallow his cock, again and again. 

“Fuck. Alfie. Alfie, fuck,” Tommy practically chants it, more and more desperate the longer it goes on. There’s a note of despair in his voice that makes Alfie feel like he’s aware of what he’s saying, but can’t bring himself to stop. “I need you, Alfie, fuck,  _ fuck, _ I fucking need you.” 

“That’s me, sweetie, I’m right here,” Alfie growls, hot in his ear. He bites at the hot flesh of Tommy’s neck, sinking in his teeth and leaving the imprint of his jaws behind, marking him. 

This seems to be what makes him come.

Tommy’s tight little body seems to coil like a spring around Alfie’s cock, and his neglected little prick pulses twice before spurting white-hot semen all down his front and Alfie’s desk. He makes a high, despairing noise, yet somehow relieved, like a drawn-out sigh. Like acceptance.

It’s glorious. So fucking glorious that it tips Alfie right over the edge, following Tommy’s orgasm like one great wave crashing over the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOUR COMMENTS ARE AMAZING, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO LEAVES THEM!


	5. A Contest Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy comes to terms with the fact that Alfie isn't a force he can bargain with or escape from, nor does he want to.

Back in the military, Tommy would let his fellow soldiers fuck him. Even then, he was in control, using his body to ensure their loyalty. He later found out, during his insomnia-induced reading sessions, that this was the same technique used by the Spartans. Great minds think alike, he supposes. 

As a child and throughout his teenage years, he became sharply aware of when people started to look at him differently. He pushed his feelings of discomfort aside, and learned to see it as an advantage. No one was going to protect him, anyway. And anyway, even when he was on his knees, he still had them by the balls.

Alfie stripped that all away. Panting through the aftermath of his orgasm, boneless in Alfie’s lap, he feels defanged, helpless. Alfie’s hands rome carelessly, caressing and exploring. He’s muttering something unintelligible in Yiddish, mouthing at the nape of Tommy’s neck, at his hair. His kisses feel like warm rain. 

Fuck. This can’t happen. Tommy can’t let anyone get him like this – this is the one time Tommy’s supposed to be in control. But it’s too late. He’s already lost this one, and it’s dawning on him with a kind of resolute horror that Alfie might be a man he can defeat.

But there’s relief there, too. Relief that with just one person, maybe, he doesn’t have to be the one in control. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Alfie presses a kiss to his cheekbone. “You okay, treacle?”

Tommy wets his lips. Nods. “Yeah. Fine. I’m fine.” Maybe in a while, that will be true.

His hands are still shaking as he dresses, so Alfie bats them away to button his shirt for him. Tommy can’t bring himself to look at him, averting his eyes, his face hot.

“No need to be embarrassed, sweetie.” Alfie, of course, has to comment on it. “There are lands, right, where my skills are so legendary, they build statues in my honor. Lads leave offerings there, in the hopes that they will one day have the honor of simply gazing upon my manhood.”

“Hmm. In for a bit of disappointment, then, aren’t they?” Tommy says, because he can’t help himself.

Alfie looks, if anything, delighted. So Tommy’s caught off guard when his hand – which has just buttoned it’s way to his collar – comes to his throat, and squeezes warningly. Tommy doesn’t flinch away, but his chest hitches. 

“I’d be careful if I were you, sweetie. I’m still inclined to discipline you for your cheek,” Alfie informs him. “If you want to make things better for yourself –” the hand loosens, and Tommy realizes he’s tying his necktie for him – “then you can go home and put on that little gift I got for you, and get yourself nice and wet and ready. I’ll be paying you a visit later.”

Tommy swallows. Literally and metaphorically, he’s fucked. 

Alfie pulls him close by his newly-done tie and kisses him, and his warm, full lips feel like relief. Some unspoken contest has been won here today, some invisible threshold has been crossed. 

Tommy will leave this office with Alfie all over him, marked by him, and nothing will ever wash him off. Maybe that's a good thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who leave comments, you have a special place in my heart! Can't wait to post my next fic about these gangster-shaped babies and their developing relationship.


End file.
